


Tango Du Mycroft

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Tango, mythea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:12:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2103942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After discovering Anthea cannot dance, Mycroft volunteers to teach her. Unfortunately, Sherlock seems to think he is a better teacher. And drags John along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tango Du Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My lovely applez](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+lovely+applez).



> So this is the first time in a long time I've written something semi-long. And it's also the first time that I've really worked in Johnlock and I've taken out extreme angst. I have yet to decide if I will turn this into something more or leave it at this.

"Wrong, do it again."

He drops his arms, limp to his sides, ignoring the latest spin she has thrown at him. Her feet narrowly carry her to safety, avoiding a face first meeting with the floor by brief centimeters. She composes herself from the mishap, he is already two steps ahead, striding across the smooth floors of the dance studio to recoil, recollect. 

It is overly bright that afternoon and they are on their lunch break just a few blocks from the office. He's wearing his full office wear save for the heavy silken jacket that wraps his shoulders and the waistcoat that hides his flask and holds him in. Mycroft is stripped down to his trousers and white shirt, leather braces holding him together. And she, she is a hot mess in pointed Jimmy Choos and her work dress, wrapped tight around her curves to hold her in. Her hair is pulled away from her face, tucked up in a tight bun. The woman has already begun to sweat, her feet hurt and she is tired of face planting into the light sandalwood floor of the empty dance studio.

But Mycroft is poised and ready to go again before she can tell him to stop, causing her to groan her way back into position. 

He had found out she couldn't dance the hard way, embarrassed in public when she had turned him down for a dance. Society demands that she respond politely to his each request-they are dealing with  _very_ old fashioned men with too much power- and so her insult to him did not go unnoticed. Which is perhaps why, when they practice now, is he harsh, demanding she return to his front, chest to chest. The tango is today's dance of choice, and she is out of step with him. 

"Pay attention, Miss Jones."

His eyes stare into the side of her head, and she could swear that the glance could be poisonous if it wanted. Her eyes meet his, and he locks her into his gaze, pushing against their clasped hands to lead her backwards. 

The thing about dancing with Mycroft Holmes is that he is a much older man, and that his movements are graceful for his age. Her fingers wrap around muscles against his shoulder, long thin lines of age that flex and move when he dips her. He is supposed to support her when they dip, her breath catches and hand tightens-

The man lets go of her. 

Anthea is quick with her reflexes, wrapping her other arm around his neck so that she doesn't fall. Her heart stops in that moment, and Mycroft is careful to bring her back up, untangle her from him and step away from the woman. It is no secret he is frustrated with her-and she is frustrated, too. 

"You must  _trust_ me," he begins to scold, retreating away from her, italian shoes clicking across the floor, "You cannot  _choke_ me with your arms, my dear."  
  
"You let go of me!"

"Because you were clinging to me," he scolds, just as quick as the woman's testy out break. He studies her carefully-she is a spitfire of energy and heat, the tango is the dance that he sees in her, in her eyes, in her stance, the dance  _of_ her. "If you cannot even master a simple dip, how do you think you will ever be able to complete a lift?"

The thought of the man lifting her in air is both arousing and frightful. 

"I-" the woman sighs, placing one hand on her hip. "You tell me this is about trust, but you go to drop me, Mycroft, how can I trust you when I've face planted at least three times today?"

"So that's it then, you want to quit?"

"No-" she sighs, breath cut fast and hard. The woman is at her end with him, she cannot trust him enough not to drop her, he is so impatient, she should have just hired a teacher...

It is then they heard the creak of the door from downstairs, and the sound of boots. She was certain the studio was closed to them all day. 

Were one to walk in on the scene of the dance studio, one would be able to cut the tension with a knife. Anthea is in the corner diagonal from Mycroft, whose back is to her as he rummages around near the stereo, searching for a song that could help them smooth over the bumps in the dance. They are as far from the same level of thinking as could be, and certain that sometime soon their lunch break would be up.

That's where Sherlock Holmes and his great Doctor Watson find them, at odds on a wooden dancefloor in a studio down the street from work. It was almost half past six pm, and much to the surprise of the parties involved, Sherlock had known  _exactly_ where to find them. Which causes an outburst from the angry, objecting female party.

"You told them?" she hisses, embarrassed. 

"Don't be ridiculous, my dear, of course I told him," he corrects, straightening his posture as he turns to face his brother. "We took our lessons together as children, isn't that right  _Sher_ lock?"

Sherlock only offers his brother a half-assed sneer and an eyeroll before shrugging. "He told me about it Miss Jones because he was looking for a studio. I however did not realize he would be taking time out of his  _office_ for such a  _dire_ matter."

The insult leaves her flustered, and gets a scolding look from Mycroft. 

"It's our lunch, Sherlock, what is it you need?"

"Unless your 'lunch' extends well into the second half of the work day, I'd say you've run over your time slot. I was coming to you for information on a case, so imagine my surprise when neither you nor Miss Jones were in the office. A quick deduction from your recent  _favors_ lead me here and look-" he makes a face, "You're  _still_ repulsing your dance partner nearly three decades later." 

Mycroft's face is a mixture of both annoyance and displeasure, but he makes no comment or remark to retaliate. Before he can make a comment, Anthea steps in, gesturing towards Doctor Watson.

"Why did you have to bring him?" She sounds whiny, annoyed.

"He goes everywhere with me." Sherlock smirks towards the direction of the man before stepping towards her. His strides are long and smooth, fluent like he, too, is a remarkable dancer. 

"I may be rusty," he continues, taking up Anthea in his arms with a deliberate, dominant practice, "But I am  _certain_ you will never get her to comply if you constantly  _drop_ her, Mycroft." 

She would ask how he knew that, but it was probably something absurd, like redness on her knees or her dress being slightly askew. He commands her in his arms, holding her tightly, secure. His does not demand of her the way Mycroft does, but commands her to move. The first dip she is secure in his grasp, does not cling-and he spins her with ease before returning to stand. 

There is no mistaking the jealousy and fury that courses through Mycroft Holmes's veins when he sees how smooth and sensual Sherlock makes her dance. He is fuming in his corner, watching his baby brother guide this woman around, dropping her down and spinning her up, the only sign of energy being exerted his the dramatic swish of the ends of his coat as they stop abruptly. He shows him up on the one thing he actually better at him with and it drives him nuts. 

And it shows, when Sherlock lets the woman go only to gather her up in his arms again. He glances over at John. 

"Put something on, John," he commands, nodding towards the stereo. John pales, protesting after catching a glance of the look Mycroft is giving him behind his back.

"Sherlock I don't think that's a very good idea-"

"Oh Mycroft will get over himself here shortly, I've something to show him." 

Anthea, for what is was worth, didn't mind dancing with the younger brother, he was in control, a different kind of control than Mycroft offered her. She only watched as the Doctor moved towards the stereo, startling when she felt Sherlock's lips by her ear.

"You don't really expect me to believe someone like yourself can't dance," he murmurs, low, lips barely moving, "Change your mind now, before you embarrass yourself in front of us all."

And the music starts.

She is, quite honestly, offended by his whisper. If she  _could_ dance, she would have said so. The woman is not a liar, not in this sense and when he leads her quickly around the floor, she keeps up only because he gives her no other option. The violin soundtrack screeches into the space, he is remarkably sexual, his turns and drops of her are laced with a fake passion. And she feels like she cannot match him, at least not like this, with the eyes of her dance partner watching, envious, glowering. 

It is not until they approach a move that she has not practiced yet, does she realize the cruel intentions of the younger brother. He dips her low, between his legs, arms curled tight around her. The intention is to spin her sharp, quick, and catch her centimeters before she hits the ground, although that is not exactly how it happens.

Sherlock spins her, but he expects her to know that she must grab a hold of his wrist to catch herself as well. He lets slip his hand, and the woman hits the floor with a sharp, painful thud, causing both John and Mycroft to protest angrily. 

"The woman can  _dance_ ," he accuses aggressively, "No woman like her cannot go through life and not know how to  _dance_!"

"Sherlock that's enough-" John protests, stepping over to Anthea's side to help her up. The woman is furious, can't  _believe_ that the youngest Holmes would also drop her purposefully, and she looks up, angrily.

"Did you honestly expect me to know how to  _tango?_ I can't dance, Sherlock and you've done nothing to prove that I can!" 

"Honestly Sherlock," Mycroft cuts in, rolling up the sleeves on his shirt to expose his thin forearms, "Did you expect me to be wrong about her. You wanted me to, but I'm not." 

By this time John has helped her to her feet, stepping back and away. He can see she is upset and he wants no part of the fury she is about to unleash on Sherlock. 

But Mycroft intervenes, stepping between his angry woman and his dumb brother before she could do or say something she might regret. She stops her approach, and Mycroft looks down at her, extending his hand. Anthea is hesitant, she has already face planted enough today. But the threat of being taken back up in Sherlock's arms keeps her from hesitating too much. 

"John-" Sherlock cuts, striding over to him, "Dance with me."

John is not a dance. He knows how to dance, but certainly not the dance that Mycroft is teaching, and certainly not with another man. His face shows the signs of protest, and he looks uncomfortable. Sherlock tips his head.

"Oh please, John," he dismisses, "As if you've never danced with another man before in your life. We're teaching Mycroft and Anthea, so let it rest." 

The way he belittles him has John begrudgingly agreeing to the tango despite his best efforts to avoid it. Mycroft has already taken up the woman in his arms, and Sherlock, whose not to be bested by his elder brother, strides over to the stereo to play the song. 

With Mycroft, Anthea's chemistry is better. Sherlock is a good dancer, yes, but there is more lithe to the way Mycroft's body rises and falls with each step. She barely focuses on the way Sherlock and John dance, Mycroft has a renewed passion for getting this right. They manage their way through the first dip and the second twirl, and when he brings her back in, he presses his forehead against her, hot, passionate, a heavy dance. The woman's breath is against his cheek, and the hand at her waist slides up to her back, chests pressed together as the violin screeches into the air. 

The tension once filling the studio is gone, and Mycroft is solely focused on Anthea. He is besting his brother, who has, at this point, stopped his dance with John to watch them. Anthea isn't counting her steps like she was, she is following his lead, allowing herself to be guided, Mycroft brings her down, into the spin that Sherlock dropped her in, and when Mycroft spins her out she catches his hand, letting him drag her back up to wrap a thin leg around his waist. It is when she feels his hand over her thigh does she recognize the arousing nature of the dance, and instantly jolts back.

"Why did you stop?" Sherlock's demanding voice cuts through the air, and in that moment the passion that was sparked between them is gone, and Mycroft steps back, hands folded, breathing only slightly harder than before. 

"Sherlock," John says softly, "We should go."

But for the younger Holmes, leaving now is not an option. He has his whole attention draw onto them, and it's not going anywhere. Abruptly, the man grabs hold of John by the shoulders, wrapping a long arm around his waist. John looks flustered and, not entirely comfortable.

"You lack the passion of the dance," he snaps at her, forcing John out into a dip and holding him there, "You're not really committed to this, and it _shows_."

Sherlock demonstrates his point by using John, whose comfort level is no where near where it should be, Sherlock is nosing along his neck, like smelling a rose or some other flower whose fragrance is hidden. He slides his hand from John's waist, down his side, lifting John's thigh-

"Enough Sherlock," John coughs, stepping away, stuffing his hands in his pockets to straighten his trousers as Sherlock's spin curves back till his standing straight. "Let them try it again, no comments."

Sherlock scoffs. " _Fine_." 

Mycroft, whose attention was drawn away from the pair the entire time they'd been 'demonstrating' returns to the center of the floor, commanding Anthea to join him. She is no longer nervous, or not as much as she was and strides up to him, taking her position. His eyes are soft for a brief second and it elicits a small smile from her.

"Last time," she said lowly. Mycroft acknowledges her and then looks up to his brother to start the song.

The way they move this time, it is no longer a forced dance. His body is soft and strong, his steps push her around the dance floor. They are pressed chest to chest, his hands hold onto her like a life line, snapping her out in a twirl and pulling her back in with fire, his skills begin to show-his movements are aged like he is, full of fluidity, of passion.

And Anthea, whose nervousness wears away, lets herself loosen up, begin to move with him, as part of him. Her hips swish and sashay to the screech of the violin, the march of the snare a constant rhythm she follows. Her leg lifts around his-he dips her, his hands running over her thigh, sliding her skirt up, exposing the very edges of her stockings. Her gasp is near inaudible, but Mycroft hears it, and where his lips rest by her neck there is a twitch of a smirk. 

They look like they've been doing this forever, the way they move. Her feet strike every beat, he is fluid and graceful-there is a thick chemistry between the two that, once only apparent to the great detective Sherlock Holmes has now become obvious to John Watson. A satisfied smirk rests on Sherlock's lips as they come to the end of the dance, Mycroft dropping her between his legs only to catch her, pulling her up with one arm. It ends with a low dip, her thigh around his side, his hand low on her back. Anthea has thrown her neck back and closed her eyes, she forgets she has people watching until it is too late and there is loud, slow clapping to be heard.

Mycroft lets her up and glares at his baby brother, making a face that is both dangerous and threatening. He knows that Sherlock would say something stupid, something about maybe they  _should_ sleep together, when the woman doesn't even know it might have been a possibility (once very long ago, a drunk night he'd wanted her then) and Sherlock would be just the right amount of git to bring it up. 

But John, wonderful, patient John, grabs hold of Sherlock's forearm and catches his attention. 

"That was...that was good, right?"

Sherlock's attention turns from Mycroft to Anthea, and the expression of vindicativeness fades into boredom. 

"Well enough for someone who can't dance." He shrugs, fixing the collar on his jacket. Anthea's hands are on her hips, she's panting hard and she rolls her head back in annoyance at his half compliment.

"Was there something you had actually wanted when you came or are you content on spying?" Her voice is dark, she has headed to her bag to pick up her phone, finished with the practice for the evening.

Sherlock shrugs. "I worked out what I had needed to see my brother for long ago," he grins, "Thank you for the entertainment, quite interesting."

And before Mycroft could make a remark, both John and Sherlock had bounded off down the stairs and out the door. 


End file.
